


Concessions

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Series: Tumblr Prompts [8]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Abuse, Bondage, Bondage and Discipline, Caning, Corporal Punishment, Dark Stan, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Flashbacks, Gaslighting, Guilt, Hurt, M/M, No Sex, Physical Abuse, Punishment, Sibling Incest, Stancest - Freeform, Stream of Consciousness, Twincest, Unhealthy Relationships, dark!stan, just no good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 08:47:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13877385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: Ford knows he's messed up. Stan is gracious enough to keep him in line.





	Concessions

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Dark!Stan verse.

Ford is happy to have his brother back, even if the brother he has back isn't the one he abandoned callously in 1960-something or even the brother that poured three decades of labor into bringing Ford back to this dimension. Stan is still Stan. Still the charismatic sailor out of a black and white period piece, roguish smile and bright eyes that are years too young for him. Stan is warm and caring and can make Ford laugh hard enough that he can't stand. All of those things are the resolutely Stan.

God, Ford is so happy to have his brother back. It's a small concession to bridle his pride no matter how much it chaffs; to defer to Stan’s authority like they were fifteen and not fifty. (And it _does_ chaff to bite down on his ego, to think before he rushes into something he knows he can handle if Stan would just _listen_ to him.) Stan knows it's hard for Ford to be humble after forty years of free reigning hubris (that almost ended the world, the dimension, _reality_ ). That didn't make Stan indulgent (forty years suffering) and Ford didn't ask him to be. Still, Ford thinks, times like these make him wish Stan would see it Ford's way.

The primary issue (always the issue) is that Ford does everything right (yes, it was risky, but it was planned and calculated). The beast had a predilection for youth (victims between the ages of three and sixteen years of age) and the young girl Ford had enlisted as bait had been more than willing and even insistent. (And she was fine, a bit shaken and bruised but no lasting harm had befallen her; Ford had made sure of it.) The cryptic had been caught and, unfortunately, dispatched even though Ford had wanted desperately to study it. When Ford had returned in the thin light of dawn with the head of the monster and a trembling girl Stan had made sure the child was whole and we'll before shooing her home and turning on Ford with a vicious left hook.

In retrospect Ford supposed he deserved that. Still, Ford thinks it’s a bit much when Stan drags him back to the village elders and forces him to apologize for jeopardizing one of “their kids after they’ve lost so many, what were ya thinking Ford?” Ford counts it as a concession that he leaves the head and body of the beast behind (but not before collecting his due samples; he killed the thing after all). He believes that’s the end of it when he and Stan disembark from the miniscule fishing village and sail further north. Stan had seemed genial enough, laughing with the men that had helped them load their boat while he flirted with the women in turn. But when the sun sets and Ford is weary but satisfied with his research Stan corners him in the kitchen.

His eyes are flat and furious (like an animal’s, Ford muses; like a beast’s). Ford feel righteous, defensive anger burn over him--burn away his satisfaction and contentment (humility). He scowls and tries to shove past his brother to the cabinet. They have a wealth of fresh food, of course, but he wants something he can take with him to his tiny corner of a lab. Stan grabs his arm. Ford fights the urge to lash out.

“You’re a fucking idiot.” Stan rumbles. Ford wrenches away from Stan with a scoff. Stan doesn’t let go even if his footing is upset by a few inches.

“Get off,” Ford growls and pulls again.

“Ya got any idea what ya did, Stanford?” Stan pulls at Ford’s arm again and Ford knows he isn’t going to win this fight.

“I destroyed a monster and saved lives,” he snaps. Stan glares and then sighs, shakes his head.

“God, ya idiot.” Stan releases his arm and Ford hopes for a moment that that is the end of it. It isn’t, of course. “I swear, Ford.” Stan pauses and looks over Ford critically. “Get to the fuckin' room, would ya? We both got shit to do.” Stan pulls off his red beanie and runs his broad fingers through his pale hair. (When did they get so old?) Ford feels like a surly teenager when his shoulders curl up defensively as he glares at the floor. “Stanford.” Stan voice drops and Ford rolls his shoulder back and walks to the small cabin he shares with his brother, head high.

Ford knows it’s necessary but this is one part of his relationship with his brother that he wishes he could purge (who did Stan, of all people, think he was to do this? Stan!) but he knows just as well what he is capable of without his brother and if this is what Stan wants then this is what Stan will have (Ford can’t lose Stan again; not again; _it’s his fault_ ).

Ford stands dumbly in the miniscule space. There is only one bed large enough for two adults if they felt comfortable with each other (it helps Ford at night to feel Stan so close; to feel his breathing and his body heat: _alive alive alive_ ). Beside that, the room is spartan.

“Why are you still wearing pants?” Stan’s question makes Ford jump, just a little (left over nerves from the monster hunt, of course). Ford flushes and goes for his sweater--he isn’t being contrary, it’s just logical. Stan always wants him naked for these corrective sessions. Ford assumes it has something to do with the psychological component of added vulnerability. (Sweater and then undershirt; shoes, socks; belt, slacks, boxers. They are all removed and folded and stored to the side. It is clean and neat.)

When Ford is naked (it’s cold so far north how has Stan not said something yet?) Stan gently grabs his face and looks him in the eye. Ford still has his glasses on. Stan is in his jeans and undershirt.

“Ya love me, Ford, don't ya?” Stan asks like he always does. It’s almost Pavlovian by now.

“Of course, Stan,” and Ford is already relaxing into the kiss he knows is coming. Stan smiles against his mouth and nods his head.

“I know ya do. You want to be good, don't ya, Sixer?” Stan says (and Ford tries not to tense up and lash out because, no, no, no, Bill, he doesn’t (does) want to be good, not for you not for _you_ \--)

“Ah!” Ford gasps when Stan pinches the loose skin of his neck and twists.

“Focus, Ford. You wanna be good?” Stan chides. Ford nods because he finds it’s hard to speak. (And isn’t that funny: verbose Stanford Pines blinking dumbly at his brother.) Stan doesn’t mind his silence. (Ford will not be quiet for long even though he tries.) “I know ya do. That’s what ya got me for, right?” Ford nods; he’s not really listening. He’s remembering now. (Remembering too much, honestly, but when he can’t quiet his mind he finds it’s just as efficient to let it get as loud as possible: if you can’t turn off a machine sometimes you plug it with junk data until it shuts itself off. When did he get on his knees?)

Ford shakes himself back to reality enough to understand when Stan had moved him to kneel on the bed (a concession for Ford’s aging knees; doing this on the floor sometimes ends with Ford nearly lame). Ford blinks and curls his hands into the mattress and gets a fistful of sheets. His skin feels hot-cold. He isn’t sweating yet but the flush of humiliation is heady in the worst ways.

“Hands, Ford,” Stan says and Ford stiffens.

“Stanley, no.” He pleads and then flinches (it's bad; it's always bad if Stan had to hold him still). But Stan doesn’t hit him for talking out of turn, he just sighs.

“Ford, don’t be difficult. Ya really think ya don’t deserve this?” Stan just runs a hand down Ford’s arm until it curls gently around his wrist (gentle, Stan is always so gentle). Ford shifts his weight and follows Stan’s lead until a familiar loop of synthetic weave cinches around his wrist. It isn’t bad, not really, until Stan starts to pull Ford’s free wrist in the opposite direction (a benefit of such a large bed, Ford muses, to be able to stretch from one side to the other comfortably). Ford is secured--it doesn’t take long.

Now is usually when Ford starts to panic. And he does.

“Stan, please.” He begs, feels his breaths getting short and shallow. He knows if he keeps this up he will become light headed but what he knows and what he feels are magnets of a similar pole, flying as far away from the other as they can. “I didn't do anything wrong.” (It’s too late, of course it is, but he had to try. He's scared like a child of five and not a man of fifty.)

“Stanford,” and it’s the first time Stan has sounded like something other than Ford’s brother. Ford clenches his teeth around the urge to fidget and beg. “I don’t know what else t’ do with ya.” Stan says and Ford sags. (Because, of course, there is nothing else to do with him; for all of his hubris Ford can’t be counted to learn, can he? He is as dumb as a beast in this.) “Yer trying’, Ford,” Stan rubs a rough hand down his back. It makes Ford’s skin crawl (it shouldn't). “That counts fer something’.” And Ford starts because he remembers--

  


(“I can’t fuckin’ do it, Ford!” Stan slams his fists into the desk. His head follows with a _thump_ and Ford wants to remind him that cranial damage would be detrimental to his memory but wisely keeps his mouth shut. “I’m gonna fuckin’ fail another fuckin’ class.” Stan isn’t crying yet because Pines men don’t cry. “I’m just too fuckin’ stupid, Ford.” Stan looks at him, eyes red and wild and so lost and furious. Ford breaks the Pines men code and hugs his brother.

“You’re trying, Stan.” Ford thinks he breaks his brother because Stan starts to cry. “I know you are. That counts for something.”)

  


“Gagh!” Ford gasps and wrenches against the ropes around his wrists instinctively (stupidly). His foggy mind (why so foggy he isn't drunk yet) takes a long moment to comprehend the line of pain across his ass as coming from the switch he can’t seee in Stan’s hands. Ford hadn’t expected it, given the last one had broken after last time (don’t think about last time) but the village had been surrounded by trees and Stan was always resourceful, wasn’t he?

“Ya know, Ford? I ain’t even angry about the kid,” Stan starts, almost conversational with (an object moving fast enough to displace air molecules that come together with a--) _crack_ and Ford hisses at the second lash as his skin almost lights up backwards with pain. “I ain’t even angry about ya marchin’ off into the woods on some bullshit.” Another crack and Ford isn’t paying attention to Stan, just trying to breathe deep and even; he’s preemptively compensating for the useless way his breath is going to hitch. “It’s yer goddamn pride, Ford.” And Ford does whine on the next blow because, _fuck_ , whatever Stan picked up hurt (there had been mostly pines, soft woods, perhaps a greener branch). “I ain’t stupid, Ford.” Stan follows that statement with a particularly hard blow and Ford does yell, even though he muffles it into the mattress. Stan lets him catch his breath. Then he starts again like he never stopped. A ceaseless whistle- _crack_ -pain and Ford swallows his noises until he can’t. He finally makes a noise between a moan and a sob when whatever Stan is using to cane him hits the delicate skin between his ass and thigh.

“I’m sorry!” The words escape him before he can even think clearly. (Stan doesn’t stop, he’s better than that, wants better for Ford.) And he hears Stan _tsk_.

“Ford, you really coulda gotten hurt,” Stan says, Ford thinks Stan says.

“I had it under control!” Ford hears himself snarl and freezes. (Shit, shit, shit.) “Sh--I’m sorry! Stan, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--AH!” He yells and shoves his face into the bed.

“Under control?” Stan growls, low and dangerous. Ford shivers.

“I’m sorry,” he whines. (It’s pointless but maybe, maybe, maybe.) “Fuck! I’m sorry!”

“You think I would do this if you had 'control'?” Stan asks and he sounds so, so angry. (He was angry last time, too, but Ford deserved it.) And the next blow forces a scream out of Ford. He’s past embarrassment now. Screaming just makes him feel better (releases endorphins like laughing and crying).

“Sorry,” Ford tries and even to his ringing ears it sounds weak (or maybe because his ears are ringing it sounds weak).

“Do you think I’d waste my time--” and whistle-crack- _SCREAM_ “on a useless--” --crack- _SCREAM_ “piece of shit brother like you?” Stan doesn’t stop or slow or--no, Stan gets faster and harder and Ford can’t think. He can only scream and try to breathe. (Breathe, _breathe.)_ and 

“Sta-- _AAh_ . F--uu _uh_ ! I’m sorry! _AHCK_!” Ford doesn’t stop himself from crying, feels the hot, itchiness on his face distinctly (it’s almost funny that the pain is so present but he still feels itchy and still feels the tear-thinned snot dripping over his lips).

“Well, guess what?” Pain, he feels it to his bones (Stan has broken something this time, he knows it, someone else will see it, too). “I didn’t spend ten fuckin’ years sucking dick--” (Oh, _God_.) “--and thirty years of your bullshit--” (Stan’s gonna kill him because Ford can’t breathe) “--on a worthless--” (Stan please) “--waste of fuckin’ space--” (Ford can’t, he can’t, he’ll die--)

 

(Stan slams the bedroom door behind him; he slams it on the voice of their father. Ford is on Stan, tense Gordian knot he is.

“He’s wrong,” Ford says and like Jason he cuts Stan bare and Stan unravels. “You’re not a waste of space,” Ford tangles his fingers in Stan’s hair to hold them both together. “Where you go, I go.”)

 

Ford feels strange--he always does and somehow it always feels new. (He needs to catalog this, he thinks, not for the first time.) Stan is breathing hard and Ford is trying to understand how he can feel the agony of a beaten ass and the mild discomfort of his stretched arms and the mild chafing of the ropes and still hear Stan over Ford's own gasping. And then, soft and small, he hears a noise like...like…

“Damn it.” Stan huffs and Ford can almost see Stan rubbing at his face. “I didn't—didn't bring you back for this.” Ford would gladly lose himself in the sharp pain of his flesh to avoid the deep, cold void opening in his heart (Stan is hurting; why does he always hurt Stan). Stan doesn’t sob, doesn’t choke even though he sounds like he should.

  


(“Tell him! He’s crazy, Stanford!” Stan is yelling and causing a scene as Pops throws Stan to the curb like some cheap movie. Ford is furious--a kind of angry that feels thick like oil. “Stanford?” Ford looks at his hands. “Ford, come on, I’m sorry!” And Ford thinks that Stan will never be sorry enough. “Ford, I’m sorry!”)

  


“I’m sorry,” and Ford doesn’t mean the monster in the forest.

“Forty years.” Stan says and Ford can’t parse his tone until--

“Fuck!” Ford shouts and thrashes because--because--

“I’m done.” Stan says and Ford is. Ford is scared. Ford is--

“N-no! Stan! I’m sorry!” Ford can’t follow his brother, can only thrash and the burning of the ropes isn’t enough when Stan is there (absolution, it's so close, he needs him).

“I know,” Stan sighs and Ford feels the bed dip beside him (Stan didn’t leave; Stan is here. Stan _loves him_ ).

“I’m sorry,” Ford says again. He feels a hand on his head.

“I know.”


End file.
